


A Well-Seasoned Rebellion

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cassian Andor-centric, Food, Gen, POV Cassian Andor, eventual rebel captain, fluffy but in a way that doesn't remove canon backstory, friendship fic, multiple one shots on a theme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-18 13:41:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16996077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: A look at various moments of Cassian Andor's life, work, and friendships, through the filter of various foods, spices, and drinks.This is an everyone-lives but otherwise canon fic. No romances (as of now) all friendship feels!





	1. Caf

_ 18 years before the Battle of Yavin (18BBY) _

 

General Draven's caf smells worse than no caf at all. Not because it’s bad caf, (General Draven might be a practical man, but not so practical that he'll give up the officer's rations) but because it is certainly caf no one will offer to Cassian. Therefore, he’s decided it's the worst caf ever.  It’s not a kind thought to have, but Cassian has run out of energy for kind thoughts. He’s tired, and his boots are too big and his jacket is too small, and Draven won’t even offer him any of the caf, terrible or not.

So, Cassian, the youngest, least official intelligence operative the Rebellion has, glares at the caf on the table across from him. He hates being left out of things.  The General has poured a cup for the two other operatives in the room. He gave Cassian Nauberry Juice, in a little foil pouch. The same damn juice that he always gets, when he’s in one of these meetings. The only reason he’s in these meetings is when the other agents used to be debriefed without him, he’d listen… through the air vents he learned to crawl through. He’s still small enough to fit, although on his most recent excursion, one corner had been so tight he’d had to shimmy on his side.

Which is something he should tell Draven, before he gets another mission that involves climbing through other ship’s various ducts.

He likes to think that if he’s old enough to go on missions, he’s old enough to swear, and certainly old enough not to drink Nauberry Juice.

Ever. Again.

He just wishes he had a better idea of how old he  _ is. _

His feet swing back and forth in the chair, not quite touching the ground as he tries to do the math. (Math is one of his favorite subjects, because the numbers look the same as they did at home. He can’t say that about the letters.) He knows he threw a bottle at a clone trooper the day after his sixth birthday. He know he lost his family soon after.  But he doesn’t quite know how long he spent in the ruins of his burned-out barrio, foraging and surviving.

When General Draven found him, Cassian had said he was nine. He thought that sounded like a good age. It was the age he'd been told he had to be, if he wanted to walk alone to the market.  It’s been… two years since then? Maybe three. Time is hard when you’re always being shuffled from base to base, teacher to mission to school to a mission-inside-a-school. (The last ones he finds the most exciting. At least, for now.)

Draven would know. But Draven won’t pour him any caf, so he’s not going to ask.

 

“The datafiles proved very useful,” Draven says, and takes a large sip of his caf. He drinks his black, so the smell is strong, all bitter-smoke and a tiny hint of spicy warmth. Not much of that spicy smell, though. No one in the whole Rebellion knows how to use spices well, Cassian thinks. It’s the one thing that the Rebellion is bad at. When he’s older, he’ll teach everyone to cook better, he’s already decided.   
He doesn’t realize that when he’s older, he’s not going to care, or have the time. For now, the Rebellion is an exciting maze of things to learn and people to meet. He’s a being of constant energy, zooming through the halls, even tweaking a mouse droid into a racing companion who will time his sprints. 

Draven hasn’t noticed that droid’s altered state, though he has caught Cassian splicing into others. Oddly enough, the General didn’t ban him from doing so, simply nodded, and told him that if one breaks, Cassian is to report directly to him.

That struck enough fear into Cassian’s heart to make him very careful with all future droid hacking games.   
They’re just games, to him. He’s not yet realized everything he does here is a lesson. Cassian fidgets with the little badge on his too-small jacket. They’d called it a junior lieutenant's badge, when they’d pinned it on the jacket a few months ago, after he’d survived his first battle. He doesn’t remember the battle though, only the flash of a blaster bolt and the impact of his head against the hard ground. The Med Droid said that was usual for a first concussion, and warned him memory loss will go up with subsequent concussions. The droid also said that after twelve, a humanoid is considered brain-dead, and therefore, he must be diligent to avoid further head trauma, as well as report any future concussions.   
Cassian had nodded his serious nod, the one he learned by mimicking Draven.

He doesn’t know that some day, he’ll stop reporting concussions at all.

 

“Cassian did an excellent job distracting the guards,” Malacha says, smiling down at him, making her Kiffar tattoos seem much less imposing. She ruffles his hair. “We wouldn’t have been able to secure the data chip without him.”

“You were right. The Imps never expected a  _ kriffing  _ kid to be able to splice.” Unlike Malacha, the other operative, Yiai drops the whole-parenting-acting thing the minute they all step foot back onto rebel territory. Malacha will still hug Cassian when she says goodbye and slip him little treats when she sees him in the mess hall, but Yiai turns cold.

Cassian doesn’t mind. They’re not his parents. They’re spies. Like him.

“I’m not a kid.” He protests. His voice cracks on the word.

Yiai snorts out a laugh, pushing green hair away from his face. Cassian’s hands clench into fists, and he makes himself breath out, to the count of eight, the way his fighting instructor taught him. With a calmer voice, Cassian asks, “Could I maybe have a cup of caf? A little one would be good, no?”

He bites his lip, hearing the tell of his Festian. He needs to work on that, Draven says. He needs to be able to wear his accent like a coat, slid it off and on as the job requires. 

Cassian thinks he needs a new, real, coat, more than that, but he knows Draven is right.  Because Draven is always right.

“Caf?” Draven’s pale eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

“I like it.”

“You’ve had it?”

He nods, forgetting himself. Not one short nod, but a bouncing, enthusiastic one. “At--at the party for Life Day. Someone left some in a cup an’ I tried it.” Cassian had seen the thick brown beverage and remembered his abula pressing a chipped mug into his hand when he came back from running through the snow. Remember the warm zing of the chiles mixed with the richness of the ground cacao. Remembered finishing the cup and feeling so happy, so sleepy, so safe.   He doesn’t remember that it was the warmth of his family, not the beverage, that made him feel safe.   
He doesn’t realize that safe is a word, like abeula, that will soon belong to his past. 

Draven rubs his face. He does that a lot. Sometimes, he mutters a curse when he does so, which is how Cassian has learned most of them. “Fine.”

"Is that really a good idea?” Malacha says softly. She's been part of the Rebellion long enough she's not shy about voicing her disagreement, but always in a way as gentle as falling snow.

“He can make up his own mind,” Draven retorts. “Beside, caf is the one thing we’re not short on.”

“It’ll stunt his growth.”

“I think the war will do that plenty as it is.” Draven picks up the shiny metal carafe, and pours a little into a new cup. The steam rises, carrying the smell that he thinks of as maturity and respect.  He pushes the cup toward Cassian, as well as the tray with freeze-dried bantha milk powder and sugar.

Real sugar.  It’s the sugar he’s most excited about, remembers how sweet and warm the cocoa was back home. He knows caf won’t taste like cacao any more than Malacha’s hugs will ever feel like his abuela’s, but it will have to do.

“You probably won’t like this stuff,” Draven says. “It’s cheaper than what we had at the party. But go on. You asked for it. You drink it” 

Cassian, with the same quiet, careful attentiveness that always amazes his teachers (who are always so sure he’ll never sit still in class) stirs the three things together, and sips, slowly. The beverage is mostly bitter, with the smallest hint of sweet. There’s nothing of home in the beverage at all, and the aftertaste feels artificial, too thick and heavy.

He takes another sip, saying nothing. Schooling his features into calm enjoyment, the way he’s already been taught.

It’s just a taste he’ll have to get used to.

He doesn’t realize he never will.


	2. A lazy cook

_8 Years before the Battle of Yavin IV_

Cassian’s used to things going wrong. After all, he’s not only part of the Rebellion, he’s a spy. That means… what was it, Kay had said? Cassian has less than a 20% chance of surviving past ten missions?

But that fact had been years ago. He’s well-practiced now at things going wrong, at explosions when he needs silence, at silence when he’s desperate to hear something. He has trained to be light on his feet and quick at reacting.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not… annoyed sometime.

“Kriff,” he clicks the burner unit dial one more time. “It’s dead.”

“It was not alive.”

“Expression, Kay.”

“I will add it to my notes.” The droid pauses, “or I would if I had a note feature.”

“I know, I know.” He puts his hands up. “I gave you no notes feature. You remind me of that every day, no?”

“I do not know, since I cannot record it in my notes.”

Cassian has to laugh, and when he does he’s glad he still can. He’s twenty now, and every day when he looks at himself in the mirror to shave, he sees a bit less warmth in his eyes. If he keeps this up, he’s going to end up Draven’s Festian twin.

But that thought is stupid. He knows there’s no way, if he keeps this up, he’ll live as long as the General. That’s why he’s convinced himself to enjoy the small things he’s found still bring him pleasure.

Namely, cooking.

Or it had brought him pleasure, until the burner broke. He tries the dial one  more time, but no flames ignite. The stewpot sits sadly on the tiny table next to him, small bits of vegetables bobbing like icebergs.

“You could use the photon-fryer.” K-2SO points over at the white box which is standard issue in the small rooms on Yavin IV. He’s used one before. They’re idiot-proof. Open the door, set the food inside, and hit the timer. Ten minutes later, your meal’s done.

And your onions will taste just like your tomatoes, he thinks.

“That’s for cocineros perezosos,” he scoffs. Freezes. Blinks. The words had slipped out, the way a mouse droid could sneak through a crowded room. He hasn’t spoken much, if any, of the language he’d once known. Instead, he’d first learned Huttese, and then Ubese to help him on his missions. Each language had pushed a bit of his home away.

Which was good.

“That phrase translates to lazy cooks.”

“Yes. It’s something my…” who was that old woman? Why can’t he…  Everything is so fuzzy these days, if he thinks too hard about the past. Draven tells him not to worry about it. To focus on the mission at hand. Cassian is usually glad to do so, because he's not sure anyone on the base has ever worried about him, just his missions. “a relative told me.”

“Is it lazy because it is a machine?”

“N-no. It’s not like that.”

“I think it is an anti-machine policy. You should apologize to the photon-fryer.”

“The fryer isn’t…” he starts, realzies it’s no good arguing with his only friend, and sighs. His hand rests on the lid of the fryer as he mutters, “I’m sorry for offending you.”

“Why do you eat differefrent food every day?”

“Because I like to.”

“Everything else you do on base is a routine, though. This is your one area where you are the oddest.”

“Thanks, Kay.”

“Why are you thanking me? That’s an insult.”

Cassian just gives up, moves the soup into the photon-fryer, and hopes for the best. Why does he cook a different meal each night? It’s not wasteful, he sticks to his ration allowance, or even remains under it. It’s not decadent, it’s just…

It’s human.

Because he’s heard what the others have started to say. That the recently promoted Captain Andor has fewer emotions than his droid. That there’s no task too dirty for him. That he’s a machine made to kill.

And sometimes, he’s afraid they’re right.

But when the photo-fryer beeps, and he pulls out the soup, and it tastes… at least a bit like food… he feels alive again. For a little while.

He hopes the day never comes that food won’t be enough to keep him clinging to the shreds of his humanity.

But the day comes, sooner than he expects, where he returns from the mission and takes a sleeping pill. In the morning, he doesn’t eat. In the evening, he has a meal bar. Another aided sleep, another pointless morning.

Returning to his room, though, he smells something… almost familiar. Almost like soup. And there, at the counter, is Kay.

And a mixing bowl.

It’s a curse word, several curse words that slip out. But Kay simply moves, shuts the bowl in the damn photon-fryer, and then, a minute later, passes the bowl to Cassian. It’s odd, watching a droid make food. A battle-oriented droid, that is. He’s heard of housekeeping droids. Cassian takes the bowl. “Did you…” he starts.

“I searched for a recipe that includes the items in your cupboard.”

“Th-thank you, Kay.”

“Eat your soup.”

He does, and the smallest bit of warmth returns to him. It’s not a good tasting soup, no, it’s got a weird combination of spices and Kay clearly forgot to strain it at some point, but it’s the best one he thinks he might have ever had.

It’s the only meal he can remember ever being made just for him.

Someone cares about him. Someone made him food. And that, he remembers now, was what his abuela told him. The tools might make a lazy cook, but any dish made with care could be the best seasoned.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are VERY welcomed, and please feel free to comment with any ingredient, food, or drink you'd like me to try and feature in a chapter.


End file.
